I hope then when my feet no longer grace the grass of the plains.. and when my spirt walks within the clouds.. the blanket will be a reminder of our first talk of butterflies..
I sit quietly on a fur inside my wagon.. and sew tiny yellow beads along the design I marked on the leather patch.. yellow is my color... I encase the wings with a deep blue.. there are 3 butterflies fluttering upwards to the sky.. this is my mark..
I hope that if my friend walks the ground when I no longer.. he will let his fingers drift over the beaded butterflies.. and he will remember the young leatherworker that created this for him... There is no other reason than he is my friend.. for doing this.. In a small way I hope I have touched him in some way.. For deep inside he is a good man.. and one I am glad to call friend..
This small patch... not as big as the others.. goes beneath the patch of color..
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